


Venus and Mars

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Drugs, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, lost weekend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15209627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: John's Lost Weekend. Even though he knows it'll hurt, Paul promises Yoko he'll help bring John back to her. But some promises are impossible to keep.John and Paul rekindle their relationship in Los Angeles, 1974, and Paul has some tough decisions to make.





	1. Act 1, Scene 1: Request and Reunification

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually this will diverge from the actual timeline of John and Paul's post-Beatles relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know as much abt John's "Lost Weekend" as I should, but whatever. Fight me if you want.
> 
> Titles is from the Wings' song "Venus and Mars"

_ A good friend of mine, follows the stars _  
_Venus and Mars_  
_Are alright tonight_

****

Yoko wants John back. Of course she does; she _loves_ him. So, because they’re all such _great_ _friends_ , Linda suggests Paul lend a helping hand. The one true John whisperer, surely Paul can drag him back from the edge.

But Linda doesn’t know what really happened between them — she doesn’t need to know. Yoko probably knows. John doesn’t keep secrets from her. It’s hard to keep secrets when you’re attached at the hip. 

It’s Paul’s only secret, the one piece of information he’s not willing to share. Not with Linda, not with anyone. It’s the last remnant of John’n’Paul he has. He’s not giving it up that easily. 

Linda doesn’t know what really happened between them, so she doesn’t understand how _agonizing_ this is going to be. But Paul sucks it up. 

He sucks it up because he loves John, and all he’s ever wanted to do is make John happy.

They go to the towering Dakota, up to the Devil’s lair. It’s all blindingly white, scarily pristine. Paul wonders how a child can live like this. He stands staring out the tall windows, watching the city beneath him. Everything looks so small. It reminds him of a model train set. He sees why John likes it here, how it could make any man feel like a God. 

His fingers shake as he lights up a cigarette. The sky is a dismal gray and rain starts to mist, distorting Paul’s view. He turns and perches on the edge of the white couch next to Linda. Yoko walks in balancing a traditional Japanese tea set in her arms. The cup she hands him is beautiful: a deep indigo with an intricate, white floral pattern. The inside is a brilliant cerulean, and Paul stares down into it, his breath rippling the surface of his tea. He cradles it in his hands. Yoko notices him studying it and smiles sadly. 

“John gave this set to me as a gift. It’s an antique.” Her child-like voice is quiet. Paul nods and takes a small sip of the fruity tea. It warms him on the inside, a contrast to the cold room around him. 

“It’s good. Thank you.” Beside him Linda hums her thanks.

“Thank you for having us. I know we just sort of popped in on you unexpectedly.” Linda presents Yoko with one of her sunny, beatific smiles. Yoko’s smile in return is pained. 

“I appreciate it.” She pauses and takes a sip of her tea. “I miss John dearly. I underestimated his ability to act like a spoiled child. I let him go off and run rampant, but I thought he would come back to me. I never imagined he would fall in _love._ I thought it would fix him. Maybe he can’t be fixed.” 

Neither Paul nor Linda know quite what to say, and several seconds go by as an awkward silence settles around them, heavy and thick like a London fog. Paul swallows back his irritation, schooling his face into a carefully constructed mask of sympathy and understanding. He doesn’t understand how Yoko didn’t see this coming, how she didn’t expect John to throw himself headfirst into his new life, leaving the old one behind in the dust. John did it enough times to Paul for him to feel like some sort of weathered veteran.

The Battles of Stu, Brian, and Yoko. 

The whole _thing_ with Stu happened so long ago that Paul’s ashamed at how badly the wounds still hurt, how raw he still is on the inside. All he ever wanted was John’s unwavering affection, but Paul was never enough. 

A wave of pain suddenly crashes through him, and even though the room is uncomfortably cold, Paul flushes, sweat beading on his forehead. His fingers start to tremble, and he abruptly sets his tea cup down so he doesn’t drop it. It rattles on the plate and tea sloshes over the lip, running down the side. His throat burns. He stands on quivering legs, shooting up from his spot on the couch. 

“Can I use your loo?” he blurts out. Linda looks up at him in concern. Yoko absently nods, reminds him of where it is. 

He shuts the door behind him and falls to his knees in front of the toilet, bracing himself as he coughs and vomits a bitter mixture of stomach acid and tea. He hadn’t been able to eat that morning. A bead of sweat runs down his back. “Fuck.” He spits into the toilet and flushes before dragging himself to his feet. His haggard reflection stares back at him as he washes his hands and gargles some water. 

The impulse to leave is so strong that Paul contemplates marching into the living room and telling Linda that they’re leaving. He loves John. He wants John to be happy. But a voice in the back of his mind keeps reminding him that _he_ wants to be the one to make John happy, not Yoko. Not Yoko with her wild mane of hair and stern, blank face. Not Yoko with her mystical ways and Japanese magic. Plus, Yoko doesn’t even _need_ John. She wants him, yes, but she doesn’t need him. She watched fire rain from the sky as a girl and survived it; she doesn’t need anyone. 

Paul needs John. 

When John first propositioned him back in 1961, squeezed onto their tiny single bed in their dingy Parisian hotel, Paul had been reluctant. Scared. He was already infatuated with John, and Paul knew deepening their relationship to a physical level would be the point of no return for him. From that point forward, part of Paul would always, irreversibly belong to John Lennon. 

He shudders and leaves the bathroom, dragging his feet back to the main room. 

“Is everything okay?” Linda says in his ear when he drops down heavily beside her. He wants to tell her _no_ , _nothing is okay_ , but instead he offers up one of his best smiles and winks. Her face relaxes, but concern still swims in her eyes. She grabs his hand and squeezes tightly.

Paul swallows and turns to properly face Yoko. 

“What would you like us to tell John? Do you want him back?” 

Yoko lays out her conditions: flowers, balloons, hugs and kisses, romantic dates — the whole shebang. Paul keeps up a straight face, but just barely. 

After, as they’re headed out the door, Yoko softly calls Paul’s name. He turns and gives her a questioning look. Her eyes are full of sympathy. 

“Thank you. I know how hard this must be, how much you must miss him.” 

Paul swallows hard and nods, forcing himself to smile. 

“I’m just happy to help my friends.” 

\---

John is drunk and high. Paul knows that instantly as he makes his way carefully through the studio, stepping around various instruments, bottles, and ashtrays. 

They’d stopped by the house first and found May in the kitchen. She smiled at them, immediately engulfing them each in large, welcoming hugs. Paul was struck again by how young she looked, so sweet and carefree. Beautiful.

It was late; the children were falling asleep. May told Paul that John was at the Record Plant, a local recording studio. Something twisted in his stomach. He hadn’t seen John in months. His heart ached. 

“Go ahead,” Linda whispered. “I can manage the children.” 

Paul had enough decency to feel guilty about leaving his wife to wrangle the children off to the hotel, but he didn’t raise any objections. 

He went to John. 

John is drunk and high, but Paul doesn’t mind. He moves to him like a magnet, gets close enough to smell his familiar scent — something sharp and spicy mixed with the earthy, wet smell of fresh sweat. Paul breathes in like he’s taking a hit. Who needs drugs when he has John?

“Macca,” John slurs, lips twisting into a sardonic smile. “Have they sent you here to babysit me?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see my best mate,” Paul volleys back, keeping his voice light. John narrows his eyes and his smile morphs into something more vicious, a feral grin. 

“Yeah, that’s what we are.” He smirks and takes a swig of the beer he’s holding dangling by the neck. Paul laughs off the insult and starts unpacking his guitar. He tunes it up and plays a little riff to warm himself up. John snorts and lights up a cigarette. 

“Always have been such a fucking show off,” he says on an exhale, smoke curling out of his mouth. 

“I’m just warming up,” Paul says calmly. He’d vowed to himself that he wasn’t going to let John get to him. John plops down in a seat and splays his long legs out in front of him.

“You want some coke? I know you used to be quite taken with it back in the 60s.” 

“I’m okay.” Paul sits in a chair opposite John and carefully lays his guitar on the ground. “Thanks though.” John harrumphs and shrugs. 

“More for the rest of us then.” 

“I’m trying not to do all that shit anymore, you know? Now that I’ve got kids.” 

John instantly bristles.

“You calling me a bad father because I like to have fun?” he asks sharply. “At least I've never smoked pot in front of Julian or dragged him around the fucking world with a bunch of drunk musicians.” Paul winces. It’s a fair point to make. He’d forgotten how good they were at this, at fighting with each other. They’ve always known exactly how to hurt each other. Paul keeps his face blank, a neutral, relaxed expression on his face. 

“Linda and I saw May earlier. She’s a great girl.” He changes subjects smoothly. 

John nods and pulls out his pack of Gitanes again. He offers one to Paul this time, and Paul leans forward and allows John to light it for him. 

“She’s one hell of a fuck, too.” John waves the match out. “The noises she makes, son.” He shakes his head and whistles. 

“Do you love her?” Paul ashes his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray beside them. John stares at him, his cigarette smoldering momentarily forgotten in his fingers. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

“That’s great, John. I’m happy for you.” The lie easily rolls off his tongue, but the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. John finishes off his beer and sets the bottle on the ground. 

“I bet you are, Macca.” Paul opens his mouth to respond, but then Harry Nilsson starts shouting from across the room. 

“John, get over here! I’ve got something for you.” John grins and pushes himself unsteadily out of his chair. Paul instinctively reaches out to steady him as he sways. 

“You sure you don’t want a line? It could end up being a long night.” Paul picks up his guitar and nods. 

“I’m sure.” John shrugs and stumbles over to Harry. Paul bows his head over his guitar and picks a soft melody, something that’s been stuck in his head for a couple days. 

“Sounds nice, McCartney.” Keith Moon drops into the chair John’s just vacated and hands Paul a half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Now drink up.” Without missing a beat, Paul obediently takes the whiskey and swallows several long pulls. It goes down smoothly and settles warmly in his stomach. 

“Thanks.” He starts to hand the bottle back but Keith shakes his head. 

“Nah, it’s yours. You need it more than I do.” Paul huffs a laugh and nods in thanks. He sets his guitar down and leans back in his chair. 

“Hey, you want some pot?” Paul asks, waggling his eyebrows. Keith’s eyes light up and he nods enthusiastically. 

“Do you even have to ask?” Paul grins and pulls two thick joints out of his pack of cigarettes.The weed instantly settles his nerves, makes everything feel a little bit easier. He tips his head back and blows out a steady stream of smoke. 

“How’ve you been, Keith? It’s been a while.” 

“I’ve been alright. Here, there, and everywhere, as they say.” He grins, and Paul lets out a short laugh. 

“Oh fuck off.” He disposes of his joint and brushes his hands off on his pants. 

“Macca,” John barks. “Get behind the drums. Time to make some music, son.” Paul grabs the whiskey bottle and settles himself behind the drums. He takes another few sips of the whiskey. The taste doesn’t mix well with the pot still on his tongue and he scrunches his nose up. 

He looks up and catches John watching him with a tender, amused smile on his face. Paul’s face heats up and he ducks his head. 

The music isn’t very good. Everyone’s too fucking wasted to make anything worthwhile, but Paul does think his and John’s voices sound beautiful together. They hold steady eye contact, like it used to be. 

Paul finishes his bottle of whiskey and someone — he doesn’t pay attention to who — promptly replaces it with a fresh bottle. He gets sloppy drunk and starts to fuck up, forgetting words and missing cues. Everyone else is too blasted to mind, though, and the night continues. 

Around five in the morning they call it quits. Paul unsteadily stands up and starts looking for his guitar, muttering to himself as he stumbles around the studio. 

“Looking for something?” John’s holding his guitar by the neck, a single eyebrow raised. 

“Fuck off,” Paul slurs good-naturedly. John just laughs and packs the guitar up for him. 

“Don’t mention it.” He throws his arm around Paul’s shoulders and starts helping him walk to the door. “How about you come back to the house with me? It’ll be fun. Linda’s probably already asleep, anyroad.” 

Paul smiles at the Liverpudlian slip even as he shakes his head. 

“I shouldn’t.” 

“Come on, Paul. You can barely stand up. I don’t see how you’d even get into the hotel room. There’s plenty of room at the house.” 

Paul knows he should fight John on it. He thinks about Linda in the hotel room, lying in bed waiting for him. Sweet, uncomplicated, loving Linda. 

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Paul studies John’s profile: those stupid sunglasses sliding down his aquiline nose, his curly hair falling across his forehead in a way that reminds Paul of Sgt. Pepper’s, his sharp cheekbones and jawline. He’s beautiful — skinner than Paul is used to — but still beautiful. Still his John. 

“I think it’s a great idea, and I’m always right, so you’re coming with me, McCartney.” John deepens his Scouse accent and jostles Paul’s shoulder. “Plus,” he leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “it’s a big house. Plenty of places to hide. May doesn’t even have to know you’re there.” His lips brush Paul’s ear. “Come home with me, Paul.” 

Again, Paul thinks about Linda in their hotel room. It would be so simple to go to her, to climb into bed and let her hold him. 

John opens the car door and Paul slides in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how many chapters this will have b/c I don't plan things lmao.
> 
> Lmk what y'all thought!! Comments are lovely :-)


	2. Act 1, Scene 2: War and Reparations

John drags Paul through the house, quietly pointing out the various obstacles littering the floor on their way to the kitchen. Paul stumbles after him, groaning. The room’s spinning in steady, lazy circles, and Paul’s stomach lurches. 

John pushes him into a chair at the kitchen table and promptly sets a glass of water in front of him.

“Drink this.” Paul immediately chugs the water down and John silently refills it. 

He finishes the second glass and smiles. 

“Ta.”

“You want a cuppa?” 

“Sure.” John nods and starts bustling around the kitchen, setting up the kettle. Paul lights up a cigarette. “Where’s May?” 

“Probably asleep. Don’t know if you noticed, but it’s almost six in the morning.” John sits up on the counter and absently swings his legs. “By the way, there’s a guest bedroom upstairs at the very end of the hall. You should stay there. It’s furthest from the master bedroom down here.” 

John looks up, the challenge clear in his gaze, and they hold steady eye contact for several long, weighted seconds. It reminds Paul of when they dropped acid together, falling into each other’s eyes like Alice going down the rabbit hole — Paul landed in John’s soul and John landed in his. 

The kettle whistles shrilly and they both jump. Paul quickly turns to stare out the window while John fumbles to get two mugs out of the cabinet. The sun is just barely peaking over the water’s edge, and Paul briefly wishes Linda was here to take a picture. 

John sets a mug in front of Paul with a thunk and clears his throat. “Beautiful, innit?” He motions to the window with his head. Paul hums in response and takes a cautious sip of his still-steaming tea. 

“Don’t get views like that in New York or London, that’s for sure.” 

His head is starting to ache — a dull pain right behind his eyes — so he rests his head on his folded arms.

He tenses when John starts to rub his back, gently dragging his fingernails across the space between Paul’s shoulders. 

“You feeling alright? Because if you’re gonna puke, I’d rather you do it in the bathroom.” 

Paul snorts and sits up, shaking his head to dispel the cobwebs. John moves his hand to massage the back of Paul’s neck. 

“I’m just tired. Jet lag and all that, you know? I’m not too drunk anymore. The room finally stopped spinning.” John squeezes the back of his neck in response and drops his hand. 

“Let me show you to your room.”

They leave their half-empty mugs sitting on the table, and John flicks the light off on their way out. The unmistakeable sound of a headboard thumping against the wall is coming from the room at the top of the stairs, and Paul raises an eyebrow. John rolls his eyes. “Harry’s room.” 

“I don’t know how he finds the energy.” 

“Drugs,” John says succinctly. 

The guest room John takes him to is large but simply decorated. In the dim lighting, Paul sees a few abstract paintings hanging on the walls, and the bed is shrouded by a flowing, sheer canopy. 

“It’s nice. Ta, mate.” Paul pulls his shoes off and his feet sink into the soft carpet. It’s obvious no one has stayed in the room — unlike the rest of the house, there’s no sign of filth; the bed is still impeccably made. 

John hovers silhouetted in the doorway, shifting his weight back and forth. Paul can barely see his face, but he can feel John watching him. 

“You mind if I stay?” he finally asks softly, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable. Paul swallows and anxiously twists his wedding ring. 

“John. I don’t know—” 

“Oh come on Paul,” John says exasperatedly, but Paul shakes his head.

“I’m married and you’ve got May.”

“Right, I don't even know why I asked,” John snaps. “I couldn’t possibly proposition happy, domestic Paul McCartney with his fucking brigade of children and hippie wife. Finally found someone to fill that mummy-sized hole, didn’t you? Does she let you suck her tit too, or is that just for the babies?” 

Paul stumbles back as if he’s been slapped. John’s ability to swing from love to hate never ceases to amaze him. Their relationship has always been a continuous balancing act for Paul: juggling the duality of John’s personality. Loving and kind one second, gut wrenchingly cruel the next. 

“I think you should go, John,” Paul says softly. “We’re both still a little drunk and I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret.”

“Ah, there’s the Paul McCartney I know, always running away from a fight. Fucking coward.” 

Paul starts to tremble with anger. He jerks John into the room and shuts the door behind them. He can barely see straight as he spins around and stalks over to John.

“What the _fuck_ have I done to you lately?” he spits, jabbing his finger into John’s chest. “I came here because I wanted to see you — _Christ_ , John, what happened to us?” 

John laughs, unkind, and shakes his head. “Don’t you remember?” He pushes Paul into the wall with a hollow thump. “You ended it so you could go play house with the Lovely Linda, frolicking amongst the animals on your stupid fucking farm.” 

“You left me first!” Paul’s voice cracks. “You ran off with Yoko to sit in bags and plant acorns. You didn’t want me anymore. What was I supposed to do? Sit around begging for scraps the rest of my bleedin’ life? Hoping that the great John Lennon would bestow some of his love on me?” Paul’s chest is heaving; he feels disoriented, gutted, like someone went in and scooped out all his insides. He wants to take it all back — snatch the words right out of the air — but it doesn’t work that way, does it? 

John’s expression melts into a mixture of pity and pain. Paul hates it.

“Paul,” he whispers. Paul turns his head and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Can you please just go? I need to get some sleep.” 

John steps closer and curls his hand possessively around one of Paul’s hips.

“I’m sorry.” His breath is warm on Paul’s face. He doesn’t clarify what he’s sorry for — for the argument, for Yoko, for demanding too much, for leaving. 

“No you’re not. I know you.” John leans in closer. His presence is overwhelming. 

“Come to bed with me, baby.” Paul can feel the wet heat of John’s mouth against his cheek. He shudders. 

“We shouldn’t.”

“I know.” John gently turns Paul’s chin toward him and brushes his lips with a kiss. “But I don’t care.” 

They undress in silence, and Paul neatly folds both their clothes at the end of the bed. John looks as fragile as a baby bird now that he’s naked — his bones awkwardly jutting out from under smooth, tanned skin. He starts untucking the bed, and Paul watches the bones ripple under his skin, momentarily mesmerized by the interlocking knots of his spinal cord. 

They climb in side-by-side, so close that their noses are touching. Paul runs his hands over John’s body, tracing the ridges of his ribs. 

“Johnny, you need to eat more. You’re practically skin and bones.”

“Yeah, and you need to shave that fucking caterpillar off your lip.” 

“Linda says she likes it.” John rolls his eyes and nudges Paul to roll over. 

“I’m sure she does.” He wraps his arms around Paul and sighs. “I really have missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you too.” 

It’s easier to say in the dark. 

\---

Paul wakes up to the feeling of John’s erection pressed against his thigh. His own cock is curved up against his stomach, and he subtly moves to wipe at the precum tangled in the hair on his abdomen. He makes a calculated risk and shifts back, and the answering sharp intake of breath lets him know John’s awake too. 

“Damn, it’s about time you woke up,” John teases. Anxiety shoots through Paul like an icy bolt of lightning. 

“What time is it?” he asks quickly, already moving to get out of the bed. 

John soothingly rubs his stomach, hand just barely skimming the head of his cock.

“Shh. It’s okay. It’s still early. We were only asleep for a few hours. It’s only nine.” 

Paul lets out a shaky breath and nods. 

“Okay good.” John chuckles in his ear and teases Paul’s cock, rubbing his thumb along the slit. Paul shudders and bites down on his lip. 

“I see you’re happy to see me.” He playfully nips at Paul’s ear. “Hope you’re not too hungover.” 

“I, ah, no. I’m okay,” Paul bites out as John rubs his open palm across the head of Paul’s cock. “Christ, Johnny, you gotta stop.” 

“Nah.” John sits up and throws the blankets back, a wicked grin on his face. “I will do this though.” Paul’s eyes roll back in his head as John slinks down his body and settles between his thighs. He noses Paul’s balls and rakes his fingers through Paul’s pubic hair, his breath warm and wet. “Fuckin’ missed the taste of you,” he growls before licking a stripe up the underside of Paul’s cock. “So fucking _good.”_

Paul groans low in his throat as John goes down on him, his nose coming to rest against Paul’s stomach. 

John’s hair is matted and greasy, and Paul finds himself combing through the knots as John works. It’s something to focus on, something to keep him grounded. 

Saliva runs out the sides of John’s mouth, soaking Paul’s pubic hair, as he enthusiastically bobs his head. Paul’s entire body is shaking and he fists his hands in the sheets, thrashing his head side to side. 

His vision goes black when he comes, thrusting up into John’s mouth with a strangled shout. It feels like dying or being born or possibly both — some type of metamorphosis — that leaves him reeling. John sits up and drags a hand across his mouth. Paul tastes himself on John’s tongue when they kiss. 

“Sorry if I was a little out of practice,” John says as he moves to lie next to Paul, propping himself up on his elbow. “It’s been a while.” 

“No, no. You were amazing,” Paul practically slurs. He looks over at John and smiles, lazily reaching for his cock. “Lie down.”

It only takes a few minutes before John is spilling into Paul’s fist. 

John curls up on Paul’s chest after, and Paul methodically combs his fingers through John’s hair. He knows they have to get up soon, but Paul can’t make himself move. He wants to pause time, stay suspended here forever. John is bathed in soft, golden sunlight, and it makes his hair look almost red. It reminds Paul of how John used to look sitting on the porch at Mendips, when the light would shine _just so,_ glowing like an aura around him.

It’s in stolen moments like these that Paul remembers why he fell in love with John Lennon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love angst but am bad at writing arguments b/c idk why. I don't get into very many serious arguments so I guess it's hard for me to visualize them lmao. Sorry if their argument wasn't authentic feeling??
> 
> I have no beta so any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Anyway, comments are cool!


	3. Act 1, Scene 3: Fresh Wounds and Battle Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, but I like it. It's very much a look at Paul's emotions!
> 
> Enjoy!

Paul quietly cleans John’s cum off his hand and throws the rag behind the bathroom door, hiding the evidence of what they’ve done here — the evidence of broken promises and pleasure and pain. They make the bed together in silence, smoothing out the blankets and fluffing the pillows — tampering with the crime scene. Destroying it. 

He steps into the shower and tries to wash John off his skin. Except then John steps in with a cold gust of air and Paul knows there’s no use in trying to stop it now — this thing they’ve put in motion. He might as well give in. 

They kiss like they’re starving and may never be full again. Water runs into Paul’s eyes as he moans into John’s open mouth. His cock perks right back up, and he has to hold onto John’s shoulders to stay standing. He’s delirious, drunk off the feeling of John against his body: his razor sharp hipbones and knobby knees.

“I want you to fuck me,” John whispers. “Want to feel you inside of me.” Paul blindly reachesbehind them and shuts the water off. Goose bumps flare across his arms. John’s mouth is a burning inferno against his skin.

“Not here,” he manages to gasp. “Bed.” 

John growls, a sound that travels from down low in this throat and vibrates in the air around them. It’s primal, the sound of an animal closing in on its prey. Sex with John has always kept Paul on his toes — it’s a stubborn dance; he’s never sure who’s in charge. 

They stumble to the bed, limbs tangled together, mouths sliding over each other. John’s lips leave a wet trail across Paul’s neck as he kisses the thin skin. The inside of John’s mouth tastes like sour beer — remnants of a night out — but Paul doesn’t mind. They’d forgotten to dry themselves off so they’re both slippery with soap and water. Paul struggles to get a firm hold on John’s shoulders, sinks his nails into the hollows of his collarbone. 

“Come on Paul, give it to me already.” John hooks his ankles at the small of Paul’s back and impatiently rocks his hips up. Paul nods, tries to get his bearings straight. 

“Lube and a condom?” he pants, his voice alien in his own ears. He sounds wrecked, like something inside him is shattering. 

“Wallet. I’ll get it.” John crawls to the end of the bed and tugs his wallet out of his jean pocket. He tosses the condom at Paul’s chest. “Hurry.” 

John opens the packets of lube and hands one to Paul. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide. Paul’s never seen John look so desperate. 

When Paul finally pushes in, it feels strangely foreign. He’s forgotten what it feels like to fuck John. It’s more laborious than sex with a woman, less purpose-made. 

The sound of their skin slapping together is the only thing that keeps Paul grounded as he moves. He focuses on it, counts in his head. 

_Slap,_ one. S _lap,_ two. _Slap,_ three. _Slap,_ four. _Slap,_ five. 

John is chanting Paul’s name under his breath. His eyes are screwed shut. Paul hits his prostate and he sobs. 

As soon as John’s cum hits his stomach, Paul lets himself go. His whole body shakes with it. He makes a noise that he’d never claim as his own. 

The sheets are soaked in water and sweat. Paul strips the bed while John showers. He knows he should feel guilty — a small part of him does — but a larger part of him wants to do it again and again. Now that he’s had John again, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to stop. He’s perched on a precipice, staring into the abyss. One wrong move and he’ll go tumbling over the edge.

John tells him to leave the sheets in a pile on the floor. 

“The maid’s will get it. They come and clean up sometimes.” Paul nods and gnaws on his bottom lip, a habit he picked up as a boy. 

He showers in a daze, leans his forehead against the cool glass and groans. He realizes that it's not guilt he feels, it’s dread. He’s never been strong enough to resist John, not as a teenager and not now. He doesn’t know if he can afford to be with John again — the highs are glorious, but the lows are unbearable. Each time John left, he took a part of Paul with him. When John ‘divorced’ him, Paul equated it to a botched amputation, the limb was severed off and the wound left to fester and bleed. 

John’s waiting for him in the bedroom, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He grins and ashes the cigarette on the bare mattress.

“So lets get our story straight, Macca.” 

\---

May’s already in the kitchen when they go downstairs. Paul’s excuse — the story they’ve just concocted — is on the tip of his tongue, but he takes one look at May and it’s obvious she knows. She’s quietly moving around the kitchen making a pot of coffee, and she raises her eyebrows when they walk in. John’s shoulders are confidently rolled back, his gait casual. He pulls May into a hug and kisses her square on the mouth. Paul wonders if she can taste him on John’s lips. 

“Good morning, Johnny,” she says, and God, Paul _hates_ the way the endearment sounds on her tongue. _He’s not yours_ , a treacherous voice taunts in the back of his mind. 

But John isn’t his, either. He’s Yoko’s. That’s why Paul is here, isn’t it? To send John back to Yoko.

Paul sits at the table and watches warily as John not-at-all discreetly pinches May’s ass. She rolls her eyes and playfully swats him away. “Go sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.” 

May sets mugs in front of them and leans on the counter, holding her chin in her palm. “You didn’t come to bed last night,” she says, tone objective. John shrugs and smiles sheepishly. 

“Sorry. Paul and I were so fucking drunk last night. I couldn’t get back down the stairs after helping him up there. I just kipped on the floor in his room.” 

The lie flows gloriously off John’s tongue, just like they practiced. 

But May _knows,_ and it’s in this moment that Paul really sees her for the first time. There is something earth-shatteringly strong about her. Looking into her eyes is like traveling through centuries of time — battles upon battles of love and war — and the scars of ancient warriors are etched into her skin. Paul doesn’t understand why Yoko picked May for John. Surely she saw what Paul sees now? But then again, maybe one old soul can’t recognize another, because there is no doubt in Paul’s mind that Yoko has lived a thousand lives.

He tries desperately to work some spit into his dry mouth, but his voice still crackles when he tries to speak. Panic is rising like a wave inside him. May _knows_. 

“His back’s gonna be killing him for days,” Paul tries to joke, desperately scrambling to cling to their flimsy, halfhearted story. May purses her lips and nods. 

“Linda called a little while ago. She’s bringing the kids over soon.”

“Great,” Paul manages to say. “I know they’ll want to go down to the beach.” 

“You wanna go for a swim?” John asks, apropos of nothing, and it makes Paul cringe. He’s so _blasé_ about it — about this monster they’ve unleashed. 

“That sounds nice.” May clears away the mugs and sets them in the sink. “Paul, you can borrow one of John’s bathing suits if you want.” 

Paul wants to ask her how she can be so casual about this, when she’s tasted him on John’s tongue, felt him on John’s skin like a layer of dust. 

But he doesn’t. He borrows one of John’s bathing suits and goes outside. 

John ungracefully jumps into the pool, limbs flailing, a lunatic grin on his face, and Paul dives in after him, slicing the water like a knife. The chlorine burns his eyes and makes his nose run. It’s bitter on his tongue when he accidentally swallows a mouthful. Maybe the chemicals will finally wash away the remnants of John still clinging to him, but Paul knows there’s no use. 

He ducks under water and sees how long he can hold his breath, fights his body’s natural buoyancy. Black spots dance across his vision; his chest starts to burn. He comes up at the last second, kicking to the surface and sucking in great lungfuls of air. He sputters and pushes his hair out of his face. John watches him warily. _Get yourself together, Macca._

Paul swims back down to the bottom and hides. 

When Linda gets there, Paul can barely stand it. She slides into the pool and swims over to him, wraps him up in a hug and gives him an exaggerated, smacking kiss. He watches John from across the pool, sees the pained look on his face. Funny how, after all these years, they’re still stuck in the same place they’ve always been: together but not, in love with each other and with someone else, caught in limbo. 

Heather, Mary, and Stella lighten the mood some. Paul feels like he can finally breathe. 

Then Linda comes up behind him and traces a shape on the side of his neck. 

“That’s quite a bruise,” she murmurs, and Paul’s stomach drops; he flushes with panic, his body seizing up. 

“Linda—”

“Don’t apologize. I know you’re not sorry.” She kisses the side of his mouth. “But I forgive you anyway.” 

“I don’t understand.” Paul shakes his head, blinks back a sudden, ridiculous rush of tears. 

“It’s okay.” Linda wraps her arms around him and lays her head on his shoulder. Her breasts are soft against his chest. The water gently laps against them; the ocean roars in the distance. 

Paul wants to argue with her that it’s not okay, that nothing will ever be okay again, but he doesn’t say anything. He holds her close and meets John’s eyes over her head. 

“I love you.” 

He’s saying it to John. He’s accepted his fate. 

Except Yoko’s request is weighing heavily in the back of his mind. She had to know this would happen. Maybe it’s all part of her plan, part of the tangled web she’s trapped them in. John and Paul are volatile — _explosive_ — when they’re together. They’ve already imploded once, what’s to stop them from doing it again? All Yoko has to do is step back and watch them burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how many more chapters this will have. Two or three, probably. This fic is low key (high key??) trash, but I'm gonna keep writing and posting it so I can procrastinate my real life duties. 
> 
> Un-beta'd so all mistakes are my own!
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos and comment; I love hearing from y'all!


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